Yasuo's Journal
by Farstride
Summary: An infamous scoundrel's story.


**Yasuo**

_Day 34. Or 35. Maybe even 40._  
_Some month._ Can't remember, don't care to either. The point is - I'm saying is it's been a while.

On advice from a "friend" of sorts, I agreed to write a journal. Or a book, novel, series of rants - something. Anything will do really, the road's long, and most of the time I only have the howl of the wind behind me for company. Sadly, it can't do many more tricks then howl or billow. Or whimper. Except when I'm drunk: then it talks - can't say I remember what it says, but I'm _sure_ it talks.  
Any other time, it's not entertaining and honestly _terrible_ company. You can't drink with the wind, you can't tell knock-knock jokes with the wind, you can't do anything with the wind other then blow leaves and butcher enemies. My sword's poor company as well, come to think of it. Same reasons. I'm surrounded by awful company, so you journal, have a lot of lifting to do. I've learned more in this last month of traveling then in my entire life combined, it'd be a shame not to write all the lessons and people I've met along the way. Guess that's just as good a reason as any.

Think I've spent enough time on all this, so let's go on with what I wanted to write. I should start at the start - That's how all books are written... probably. Can't say I've read a lot of them in my life. Booze, swords, chasing skirts and fighting were always more interesting back then, who cared about mossy old books? A lot of things captured my attention before the simpler things. I've got too much time on my hands now, and not enough things to fill it with.

But where was I?  
Right, telling a story. This is the story of a sword inked in blood. A lot of people want me dead - they call it justice. I'm the only one who knows the truth. All I have left is the wind by my side. They call me Yasuo, and this is my story. My very own blood inked sword.

This isn't an excuse, it's not some call for forgiveness either. I'm not writing this to get a pat on the back, but to state the blunt truth: I was _naive_. That's the root of it all. Young, foolish, and _naive_. Up till that point, I'd been training day and night, perfecting a technique, an old style of combat. Doesn't really matter which technique if you asked me, whether it's better or worse then other martial arts, and so forth. All you have to know is this: I spent too much time out of my life dedicated to too little in it. And that warped my vision on the world.

The elders at the school praised me from a young age, because frankly - I was good. Real good. Disgustingly good. I was hailed to be the next hero, someone great - of course it got to my head. I won't say it's all the elder's fault for having raised me this way: They did try to steer me correct, following the morals of Ionians and such. But I won't say that all of this is _my_ fault either. I spent too much time thinking that way, only to realize that the world doesn't care for the words "Victim" and "Culprit" - It's too big to be pinned to such tiny words. Words like "Justice" or "Truth" comes to mind too as failures of language. Cute words for an impossibly huge world, almost feels wrong that such words exist in the first place. But what do I know of literature? All I did was practice with a sword each day, and dream of how I'll save Ionia, winning the hearts of the kimono clad damsels in the process.

So when the war started, I wanted to fight.

More so then any hotheaded kid, I _ached_ to prove myself in combat. Show the elders they'd done right in training me. So what did I do? Stay put, and guard an elder, or run off and fight some dirty Noxian bad guys for honor and glory? I left of course, chasing after those words, "You've done great Yasuo, as expected!" Smiling and already counting the thanks and praises I'd be getting. My own brother had even seen this coming a mile away, and begged me to keep my head cool before the fight got near us.

Huh, "Regret" doesn't even come close to what I think about all this, again another nice word that just utterly fails to answer. But that's for another time. I don't feel like writing all of this out. Don't mistake this for running away - I'm not, and never will. But by now it's simply a chore for me. Think it heartless of me if you want, but after a month of thinking about the same moments day in, and day out, anyone can become jaded to anything. Maybe it is heartless on second thought. I even killed my own brother two weeks ago, the third pursuer I had to deal with - buried him with my own hands. Haven't been sober since. And all I've got on my mind right now: There's a half bottle of Gin left, and maybe three shots of Noxian brandy in my sack. And damn, do I really want to drink.

How's that for "Honor"? There's not a lot of paper I've got, and I'm already two pages into it. Either I write smaller, or I write about the things that matter to me now. His name is Headvig. He's a crazy old merchant I met on the road, and he's the one that gave me this paper. Showed me everything I missed about books and literature. I don't think I'll run in him ever again in this life, considering I dug his grave myself, but I'll start with him.

Maybe as a nod of respect to a man that already lived a more complete life then mine. _You're too cynical, Yasuo._ He'd say. _No one likes a sad story, not the writer, not the reader. Drink up boy, __when you write - because let's face it, if you're traveling with me, you'll be writing at some point - you'll want to write a story you'll like before a story you've heard too many times.  
_Just like the old man said, I'll start with him. Because he's one of the few happy memories I've got in this last month of running, bad weather, and evil booze thieving raccoons.


End file.
